


There and Back Again

by emungere



Series: There and Back [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back at the flat, Sherlock pulled John into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I got milk,” he said.</p><p>He had. It was next to the head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There and Back Again

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Thanks very much to louiselux for betaing. More than once. And justblue0162 for telling me about the confusing bits. And to N for all the gun info, even though I didn't end up actually using it in this one (and you probably won't read this anyway lol).
> 
> ETA: Pandarus has kindly made a [podfic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/there-and-back-againand-what-happened-after-audiobook) of this!

John opened his eyes underwater and looked at Sherlock, who was looking back at him. Sherlock’s skin took on the pale aqua of the pool walls. Bubbles flew up from his parted lips. He held John’s shoulders tightly. Above them and around them, the world roared.

Eventually, they had to surface. A lot of things were on fire. Moriarty was simply gone. No one shot them.

“This way,” Sherlock said, and coughed, and grabbed his hand.

Smoke curled around them. John pulled his shirt over his mouth, but his breathing turned quickly to throat-savaging coughs and gasps that only brought in more smoke.

And then they were out.

The night was sparkling and cold, the stars much clearer than they had any business being above the city lights. In the distance, he could hear police sirens.

Sherlock gripped his arm. “I want to go home, John.”

“Lestrade should be here--”

“I mean now. We can tell him about it in the morning.”

John blinked and focused and turned to face him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m perfectly well. Can we leave now? This way, come on.”

Sherlock led him down two alleys and out onto the main street. The first cab they hailed wouldn’t let them in, soaking as they were, but the second took pity on them. Sherlock got a series of texts from Lestrade, which he wouldn’t even open. John did open his and assured Lestrade that nothing too horrible had happened and that neither of them needed a ride to the hospital.

 _he wants to go home, we’re going home_

There was a long pause after he sent that one. Lestrade wrote back:

 _fine, come in tomorrow and give a statement._

“See, it’s fine, you didn’t have to answer,” Sherlock said. He was staring straight ahead, hands on his knees, body stiff as if he might suddenly leap from the car.

“He was worried about us. He just wanted to know we were all right.”

Sherlock looked startled. “Oh.”

Back at the flat, Sherlock pulled John into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I got milk,” he said.

He had. It was next to the head.

“That’s...good,” John said.

They looked at each other.

Sherlock turned quickly and strode off to his room.

John shut the fridge door with a sigh and went to his own room, and his own bed, and his own dry pyjamas.

He woke up some time later, in the dark, with someone else in the room. He had his gun in his hand and aimed at the figure standing in his doorway before he was properly awake.

“Don’t move,” he said, in a voice so steady it surprised him.

“It’s me,” Sherlock said.

John put down the gun and dropped his head onto his pillow, hard. “Sherlock. Bloody hell. What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly. He turned to go.

“Wait.”

Sherlock waited, hand on the door frame, fingers twitching. They both waited, in fact. There was a silence filled with waiting and, in John’s case, a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Come over here?” John said.

Sherlock came to stand at his bedside. He was still dressed, and after a moment John realized that the clothes he was still dressed in were the same ones he’d gone swimming in earlier.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” John said. He threw the covers back and hauled himself upright. There was water in his left ear, and every part of his body ached, toenails to hair. He started to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

“Ripping my clothes off now? In a dark bedroom. More and more compromising.”

“Let’s not tell anyone,” John suggested, and pulled the shirt off him. “It’s your turn now. I’m not doing your trousers.”

Sherlock took them off, and then sat down on the bed with a lot of speed and not much grace. The springs creaked. He took off his shoes and socks as well.

“Pyjamas,” John said, and got him some, back turned while Sherlock’s boxers hit the floor.

The pyjamas were much too short. Sherlock looked down at his pale, bare ankles and expelled a breath that was almost a laugh.

“Bed,” John said. “Sleep.”

Sherlock just looked at him, and John sighed. Really, he’d known this was coming. That’s why Sherlock was standing here wearing his pyjamas instead of in his own room with ones that fit. John got back in bed and held the covers up.

Sherlock backed up a step and looked from one of John’s eyes to the other with quick flicks of his gaze.

“It’s not a trick,” John said.

“I know that,” Sherlock snapped. “You’re not like that.”

John wasn’t the world’s only consulting detective, but he could spot the unspoken corollary: there’d been plenty of people in Sherlock’s life who were like that.

“Get in,” he said. It came out rough around the useless anger in his throat.

“I’m not-- I’ve never shared a bed. I don’t, I’m not used to--”

“First time for everything,” John said, with patently false cheer.

“John, I’m trying to say--”

“Least said, soonest done!”

“Are you going to keep throwing cliches at me until I give in?”

“Would your rather hear that I’m too concerned about your mental state to let you out of my sight right now?”

“...No.”

“That’s what I thought. Now shut up and get in.”

Sherlock did, one limb at a time, like lowering himself into cold water. He lay on the very edge of the bed. John could feel him shivering.

“Have you ever heard of hypothermia?” John said.

“I had a blanket. It’s quite warm in the flat. There was no serious danger unless I fell asleep.”

John patted his shoulder gingerly. Sherlock was stiff as a statue and nearly as cold.

“We’re home,” John said. “We’re safe.”

“That is a complete lie, John, and you know it.”

“Would it be more comforting to say that he probably got away and is even now planning new and better ways to kill us?”

“No.”

“Right. So. We’re home. We are relatively safe. I’m not wearing explosives, and I’m armed.” He considered the mockery the next sentence would probably get him and then said it anyway. “If he wants to get to you, he’ll have to come through me. All right?”

“I know,” Sherlock said, very quietly. “That’s-- That’s sort of the problem.”

John closed his eyes briefly and swallowed. “Yeah,” he said.

Maybe he wasn’t the heart Moriarty was planning to burn out. Perhaps Sherlock’s mum was still alive, or perhaps it was Mycroft, or--oh, some improbable ex-girl-or-boyfriend. But he’d seen Sherlock’s face and shaky gestures afterwards, heard his stammering gratitude and relieved laughter. He’d sounded very nearly human. Much like he sounded now, in fact.

Sherlock turned over abruptly and pressed his mouth to John’s. Too many teeth, too much pressure, and a lot of surprise on John’s part made it a more painful experience than Sherlock had probably intended. When Sherlock pulled back there was a wild look about him, like he might bolt.

John grabbed his shoulder. “Why the hell did you do that?” he whispered.

“I don’t _know!”_

They stared at each other. John was on uncertain ground. Sherlock not knowing _anything_ was nearly unprecedented. Sherlock not knowing his own motivations was a bit frightening.

“I underestimated him so badly,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been so _stupid_. And then he-- And you--” He stopped short, staring at John as if _John_ might have the answers. Which he definitely, definitely didn’t.

“All right,” John said softly. “All right. No use crying over spilt milk.” He managed a wan smile. Sherlock didn’t return it, but he did finally take a decent breath and stop boring into John’s brain with his eyes.

“Is that what it’s supposed to be like?”

“What?”

“Kissing.”

Sadly, that probably was the safer, more neutral topic right now.

“No. It’s...generally a bit slower. With more participation from the other person.”

“Oh. Will you show me then? I don’t think I’ll get another shot at this.”

“Sherlock. Are you actually attracted to me at all?”

“I don’t think so.” He paused. “How would I know? I don’t know what it feels like.”

“That’s generally a component. In...kissing. And...other things.”

“Is it a requirement? Does it not work without?”

John blinked at him. “I’ve never done it without.”

“Why not?”

They’d hit one of those walls Sherlock had between him and the real-- the world most people lived in. Why wouldn’t you kiss someone you weren’t attracted to? How was he supposed to answer a question like that?

He wasn’t, he decided.

“All right. So we’ll both learn something from this. And then we’ll go to sleep, yes?”

Sherlock nodded, almost meekly.

John took Sherlock’s face gently between his hands. Sherlock kept his eyes open till the very last second--or more probably they were still open after John closed his. Sherlock’s lips were dry and still against his until Sherlock picked up that he had a role in this too. He was a fast learner, whatever else you wanted to say about him.

John licked at the seam of his lips, and as they parted, he thought: this wasn’t even the strangest thing he’d done for Sherlock in the past 24 hours. Even if you didn’t count letting him keep a head in the refrigerator.

John did the best he could, but with passion lacking, it was more of an exploration of mouths and tongues than a proper kiss.

“Well?” he said, as he drew back.

Sherlock did have his eyes closed. He was frowning, confused and petulant, like a case had suddenly taken a turn he hadn’t expected.

John smiled. “Not good?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “No, it was...nice? A bit...” His face twisted into a rather complicated expression. “Odd. A bit odd. But nice. I don’t touch people, John. Not--like this.” He gestured between them and then touched his own lips.

“You can,” John said carefully. “If you like.”

Sherlock laid his head down on the pillow. The tension had gone out of him, and his whole body leaned toward John’s. His hair fell into his eyes, and his lashes were dark curves against his cheeks. “Maybe if it’s just you,” he murmured. “Not the kissing though.”

John bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh. “I think that’s just as well.”

John pulled the covers up to their chins. Underneath, Sherlock’s bony knee pushed against the front of his thigh. It was their only point of contact.

The thought came into John’s mind out of nowhere, or out of two months of watching Sherlock expect to get smacked down at every turn and mostly getting what he expected: _I am going to kill anyone who hurts him._

Moriarty had the starring role, of course, with Donovan and Anderson as supporting cast. Which was stupid, obviously. Moriarty was a criminal mastermind apparently bent on Sherlock’s destruction. Donovan and Anderson were just...unpleasant people. Their comments usually got to John more than they seemed to get to Sherlock.

Most people, in fact, bounced right off Sherlock. Only John seemed to have stuck. Which made it pretty easy to figure out who was the most likely to hurt him.

It was not a comforting thought to sleep on.


End file.
